The Midnight War
by elegant.quill1
Summary: The Mandalorian Wars were always shrouded in mystery, the Jedi's reluctance to offer aid or even diplomacy even more so. There was something dark and mysterious harrowing just beneath the surface, touching every life, every planet within reach.


**Full Summary/Notes: **The Mandalorian Wars. One of the most talked about, most historical events in Kotor history. Revan, The Exile, Atton, Karath, Onasi, all these characters had a part to play in that fundamental war that shaped Republic and Jedi history forever. But how much do we really know about it? How come so little is known about such a monumental time in Star Wars history? To that end, this story was born. Please note that this is an **AU canon. **It is my hope that the events and characters written here are accurate as possible given what little we know from the actual Wars themselves. However, this is my perspective. Nothing more, nothing less. Finally, I would like to note that Jaq (you all know him as Atton from Kotor II) is a major character in this story, but please keep in mind that this is Jaq _before _he became Atton. If he appears slightly different, this is why. It is about five years before any of the events of Kotor. Now without further ado, happy reading!

PS: With the exception of Ayn, George Lucas owns all. Woo.

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The battle of Dxun, it would later be called. One of the many infamous battles subsequently renowned as the Mandalorian Wars. Except this battle was special. The battle of Dxun was the first. The first trigger pulled, the first grenade launched. The first solider murdered in those rainforest leaves. And though it was instrumental to the start of the war, the battle of Dxun was not a battle at all. It was a slaughter. After all, a true battle is one in which both parties offer up a fight. But there was one thing Dxun did offer, and that was a choice: avenge or die.

It began as a simple snipe and scout mission. We were a small team – only seven of us total – so we would be in and out before anyone knew we existed. Ghost soldiers. Saul Karath's words were clear: the Jedi Council was well aware of the ongoing conflict with the Mandalorians, and help should arrive soon. Should.

It was on the third day scouting that everything changed. Between the moon's natural habitat attacking every few seconds and the rainforests' interference effectively disrupting our comms, we were sitting ducks. No matter how much ammo we carried, we held no real power. Our guns were loaded with questions, not bullets. Obscure, meaningless questions. Was there really some kind of Mandalorian base on this moon? How many would they send here? Would the Jedi come to aid us in the fight? The further we trudged through the cold, wet jungle the more it became abundantly clear: this already doubtful Mandalorian presence became less and less likely as the rain poured on.

That all changed when dusk came.

Though it was difficult to tell when afternoon ended and evening began, it became even more dark at nightfall. There was never direct sunlight, but its presence was felt in the afternoon hours. When its heat began to wane, we made camp in the most isolated area we could find. After two days of searching with no evidence to support any enemy activity, we became less and less concerned with covering our tracks. All of us were feeling weary after two days of wasted reconnaissance. So when one of the men wandered away from camp and into the woods, no one batted an eyelash. No "be careful out there" or "don't forget to take a weapon". We were convinced we were alone on this moon.

Our first mistake.

There was no warning, no gunfire. I never saw James Morrison again. One, single twig snapped and then…all hell broke loose.

From the few I had seen, all Mandalorians looked the same to me – always completely covered from head to toe in medium to heavy plating. Their armor appeared bulky with little room left for agility or defense, but it did its job of protecting the barbarian underneath. In truth, their armor was perfectly suited to them: uniform plating for a uniform purpose. They had no need for other forms of armor, because there were no other forms of Mandalorian soldiers, and it was their signature helmets that cemented this fact. Every single Mandalorian wore the same helmet: snug fit all around the head, save for the front of the face that jutted out in an almost awkward way, unlike any other part of their armor. It was this frontal region that became the signature face for all Mandalorians. It was unlike any mask worn by any other class, species, or battalion of soldiers, and so it became their mark. But moreso than their face alone, it was the thick black strip covering their eyes that gave them a particularly ominous look. The jet black line was neither wide nor narrow, and it connected to another black strip at the bridge of the nose, the latter of which formed a thin perpendicular line.

It was this face that suddenly appeared in front of me, sword aligned at my throat.

There were seven of them encircling us, one Mandalorian for each Republic soldier. They materialized out of thin air unanimously with vibroswords poised at our jugulars. In my peripheral vision I watched as the Mandalorian in front of me retracted his sword a few inches, preparing to swing the final, decapitating blow. The moment his sword was a few inches away, I took my chance, ducking between his legs and summer salting to safety. As soon as I was a few meters away, I grabbed the knife tucked in my boot and whipped around to face my executioner, my posture crouched and ready. Though I remained focused on the large brute steadily making his way my direction, I couldn't help but notice my fellow soldiers screaming as they met the brutal end I barely evaded. One by one they fell over like dominoes, unable to fight the force that knocked them over and sealed their fate.

While the others were distracted by their victory slaughter, the Mandalorian in front of me took his time, walking toward me with thick, purposeful strides. Rather than make any sudden movements or provoke him further, I took his slow pace as an opportunity to determine a course of action. My quick assessment told me their small numbers meant they were confident in their victory here. They did not need an army to overpower us – they had caught us completely off guard due to their stealth generators. We were never scouting them; they were scouting us. And that revelation led to one vital conclusion: there _was _a base on this moon. The Republic's low priority scouting mission had just become the galaxy's most prominent intel yet. If I made it out alive, of course. If I died now, the information – and likely the rest of the crew – would die with me.

The Mandalorian soldier had steadily made his way forward until he was looming in front of me, and I rolled to the right to avoid another deadly blow. Though I was proficient with swords – I had a secret love for daggers – I was fully aware that my small blade did not stand a chance against the two handed sword being swung my direction. If there was one thing I had been taught, it was not to underestimate the skill of your opponent and not to overestimate your own. A full frontal assault would not suffice in this circumstance, so it was time for plan b: evade and strike from the sidelines. If only I could get behind him somehow I might have a chance to…

Something, or rather someone crashed into my back and I felt rather than saw this person was my size – not a towering, murdering Mandalorian. I half turned, verifying my intuitive calculations, and sure enough, no Mandalorian armor was in sight. Relief flooded through me at the knowledge that I wasn't the only one alive. If we worked together, we might have a chance to get out of this. Turning back to face the Mandalorian executioners, I was surprised to find four of them standing firmly in place, waiting for us to make a move. They had adapted to our tactics. Smart. These Mandalorians were better trained than I had expected. The soldier and I stood back to back for a few silent, agonizing seconds before I felt a hand brush mine.

"Here." My comrade whispered. It was a man's voice, one I did not recognize. He pushed an object into my free hand. A grenade.

"I'll be bait. When you find an opening, take it. We've got to get as many of them at once as possible."

"But—" I started to argue. Too many had died tonight. We needed to win. We needed to live.

As soon as the soldier left my side, three Mandalorians followed him, intent on killing the male leader of the group. Only one remained in front of me, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike the killing blow. We encircled each other a few times before I snuck a quick glance to my comrade, still egging on the other enemies.

Second mistake.

The towering Mandalorian in front of me took my mere second distraction to strike – and nearly succeeded. I deflected his blow with my small blade, but his sword struck my forearm regardless. The cut did not appear deep, but I knew my strength would wane quickly if I kept deflecting his blows straight on. I rolled backwards, attempting to put some distance between us, but this Mandalorian was not waiting to take the initiative now. He strode forward with confident strides, raising his sword high. Taking advantage of his stance, I side stepped and struck my dagger beneath his shoulder blade, in between the narrow cracks of his armor. I put as much strength as possible into the motion, dragging my blade down and under his arm to add to the injury. My enemy made one single cry of pain, but his rebuttal was much quicker: he grabbed the back of my light armor tight and drug me backwards, slamming my back against the ground. The impact against the hard soil was sure to leave a mark, but more importantly, the surprise attack knocked the dagger from my right hand. A swell of panic rushed through me before I could stop it; the realization that I was utterly defenseless against a foe twice my size was all too real.

I scanned the area quickly, attempting to find my dagger and comrade both. My dagger had fallen just over my right shoulder; if I could scramble a few inches before my enemy reached me, I may have a chance. My comrade…

It was at that moment I remembered. The grenade. Perhaps if I had enough time…

Impending doom propelled me as I lunged across the jungle leaves to reach my dagger, but my enemy was equally motivated – and not from fear. It was a life or death race that we tied, reaching our targets at the same moment. He gripped my ankle and yanked – _hard – _dragging me upright like a ragdoll. Using his momentum, however, I met him halfway as he attempted to grab my right shoulder. With all my might, I pierced straight through his left hand, causing another shriek of pain. My right arm ached as the blood from his wound trinkled down my arm, but I refused to listen to the pain. I pushed the knife one last time for good measure, ensuring my enemy would be busy for at least a few seconds. Sure enough, the Mandalorian winced and fell back, attempting to remove the dagger from his hand.

Spotting the grenade no more than two feet from where the Mandalorian lay, I wasted no time retrieving it, determined to save my last remaining comrade. I stood with a shaky breath, gripping the frag with a ferocious intensity. To the right, I found my comrade much like I had seen him before, attempting to keep all four Mandalorians busy at once. He had acquired a sword since I had last seen him; he was swinging wildly to keep them at bay.

Removing the pin with one last effort from my right arm, I yelled, "Frag out!" as I hurled the grenade toward the group of soldiers. All five fighters turned to look at me, then the grenade, but not soon enough: it exploded fire and rain. The blast completely enveloped the makeshift campsite, igniting corpses and plants alike. For the second time that evening I was pushed about like a ragdoll, awkwardly flying backwards until I landed on the hard soil that was beginning to feel familiar. Tiny droplets of rain that were resting peacefully on the jungle leaves moments before splashed across my face, soothing my fire scorched skin. A strange mixture – fire and water. It felt oddly comforting, to lay in the surrounding jungle greens for a few moments. If only I could stay here for a little while…

"Here." I heard the man's voice again. I opened my eyes – they seemed heavier than they were a few seconds ago. Shock losing its hold? Adrenaline leaving my system? I couldn't seem to put a finger on this sudden wave of weariness, until he gripped my right hand to help me up. I took the invitation without thinking…

And that's when searing pain shot straight up my right arm. I groaned and fell back, closing my eyes once more. The rain felt smooth against my skin.

"Ouch, sorry." The man sounded sheepish. A few seconds went by before I heard the sound of cloth tearing. I opened my eyes to help, but my comrade was quicker than me, already at work wrapping the fabric around my skin. It was then I noticed my wound was much longer and deeper than I had originally perceived; a thick river of red was steadily making its way south toward my wrist. A clean cut. No wonder I had not noticed its effects until now. These Mandalorians knew their craft, I had to give them credit. They knew a killing blow wasn't the only way to best your enemy. A slow, subtle approached worked just as well.

"I'll take a better look at you once we're out of here. But for now, we have to move. There could be more of them coming."

I nodded in agreement. My comrade wasted no time in helping me to my feet – more carefully this time. Once I was standing, he knelt over the soldier that attacked me. It was then I realized he must have killed the Mandalorian while I was knocked back by the blast. My ally looted the body quickly, finding a few first aid items and confiscating the vibrosword.

And with that, we ran. For hours we sped through the pouring rain, not even bothering to glance at the wild beasts who glared when we passed by. The less noise we made, the less ground we lost, the better our chances. We needed to get off this moon. Winning was no longer an option. Survival was our only chance to warn the others. To warn the Republic.

I don't know how much time passed with the two of us sprinting quietly through the jungle. It became increasingly dark and cold the further we retreated, but I didn't mind. The cool, wet atmosphere numbed my aching arm, and the adrenaline pumping through me kept my senses sharp. Meanwhile, my comrade was taking a different path back to our ship. Though it was risky to cross more alien terrain, I understood his precautions. If the Mandalorians who ambushed us had informed others of our whereabouts, we would be easy targets running back the way we came. With a new route, we just might have a chance to beat them at their own game. Maybe.

Eventually the man beside me brushed my arm, wordlessly halting me. He gently pulled me toward a large rock boulder at the base of an even larger waterfall. The sound of crashing water was deafening after so many hours of running in wary silence, but once again, this soldier proved his brilliance. He was leading me behind the waterfall, where we may hide inside a rock cavern. It was dry, hidden, and isolated. At that moment, it was heaven.

As soon as we were safe inside I sprawled across the rock floor, tired and broken. I closed my eyes and attempted to slow my heavy breathing, but every miniscule action took extra effort. My cropped, burgundy bangs clung to my forehead in a unpleasant way, a reminder how overexerted my body was. I exhaled deeply and ran a weary hand across my face, removing sweat, dirt and dew alike. It was a small improvement. More than anything I wanted a drink of water and a med-pac, but I couldn't even bring myself to shift to my side – and I _hated_ sleeping on my back. This was not good.

Thankfully my comrade was more stable than I; distantly the sound of water splashing echoed off the cavern walls. Immediately I knew he was completing what I was too weak to do – a thought that shamed me. Though I ached in every way possible, I wanted to help. I wanted to be the one with energy, aiding him in this fight for survival. I hated to be a burden. I opened my eyes and attempted to sit upright, but was greeting with stinging pain in my _left_ arm. Instantly I cringed back and away, but strong arms held me upright.

"It's okay." The soldier whispered. "It's a med-pac."

Slowly, carefully, I opened my eyes once more, and was greeted with a shadow looming in front of me. I was expecting a face, a comforting one maybe, one to match the gentle whisper that had spoken just moments before, but it was so _dark_. It was everywhere. At once, I realized that was in both a metaphorical and a literal sense.

The shadow moved to sit at my right side, though its posture was not as haphazard as mine. I felt like a mess. A broken, hopeless mess. Stupid drugs.

Though I didn't appreciate the dampening effects the drugs were having on my senses – including my morose thoughts – my arm did begin to feel better almost instantaneously. The ache began to fade, replaced instead by a sense of fogginess and obscurity. I hated med-pacs almost as much as I hated sleeping on my back. Maybe as much….maybe.

"Th-thank you." I whispered lamely. The words sounded alien to me, convoluted and difficult, and yet I felt the compelling urge to say them. "I…hate to be a burden."

Though my own senses were failing miserably, I could sense my comrades' gaze upon me. "You're not a burden." He whispered. He had such a gentle tone, in spite of the dreary circumstance. It was…comforting. Once again, I found myself longing to gaze upon him – to find the face that owned the gentle voice – but I could not will myself to move. My body seemed incapable of directing itself, even as my mind told me it was too dark to see regardless.

There was silence for a few moments, and the atmosphere felt almost peaceful. The waterfall that was so dark and deafening before was now a haven of sorts, made complete by its serene beauty. For the first time in hours, I could let my guard down. I could rest.

The moment I let the drowsiness take me and my eyes fluttered closed once more, I felt a hand touch my arm. I tensed instinctually, taken off guard by the contact. The shadow's hands stopped instantaneously, poised just above the cloth covering my wound. When I realized the contact was simply the shadow that owned the gentle voice, I relaxed.

"You're exhausted." The shadow whispered as it removed the rudimentary cloth from my elbow. Seconds later the cloth was replaced by calloused fingers that went to work feeling their way down the length of the cut. The work was thorough yet gentle, careful not to inflict more damage. Checking for infection, the soldier in me knew.

"Maybe…a little sleepy, yes." I whispered back with a hint of sarcasm in my voice. Though the drugs – or maybe it was the drowsiness now – was still wrecking havoc on my perceptions and emotions, my voice was not so alien this time.

"What is your name?" The shadow asked. Though I knew this was hardly the time for questions – we were running for our lives after all – I also knew the idle conversation was an attempt to keep me distracted. The shadow's hands were still at work on my arm, gently brushing calloused fingers over and over, double-checking the med-pac's work. Under normal circumstances, the vain attempt at distraction would prove useless to me, even to the point of annoyance, but these were not normal times. For energy's sake, answering his questions would prove less time consuming than arguing.

"Ayn."

"Nice to meet you, Ayn."

I snorted ungracefully. "It's not nice when I haven't met you yet." Now that the initial groggy, morose phase of the med-pac was wearing off, a more blunt side was surfacing. Though this felt like a step in the right direction, the thought crossed my mind that speaking so bluntly to a stranger might not be the best way to connect. On the other hand, we were in a life or death scenario, so perhaps any sensibility was moot point.

"Point taken." The shadow chuckled briefly, the light sound echoing off the enclosed space. All at once the profoundness of the moment struck me: that _this_ moment was my first time meeting this soldier. The first time hearing his light chuckle. We had been together for three days and yet, until now I had never even looked his direction.

And now that I couldn't, I was dying to see his face.

"I'm Jaq." The shadow's voice pulled me from my reverie. His fingers had finished their inspection on my arm, and soon after I heard another piece of cloth tearing. "The med-pac is working well. You'll probably have a nice scar to show for it, but I don't see you having any complications."

I nodded in agreement before abruptly realizing he couldn't see me. "It feels much better."

A stillness fell over the cave and worn hands finished wrapping the second piece of cloth around my forearm in silence. Though I felt obliged to say something, anything to the shadow beside me – perhaps a thank you or a goodnight – I was beyond exhausted. I owed this man my life, and I planned to make it up to him in the morning. If I could provide nothing else, I would give him my word: that we would evade the Mandalorian scouts. That we would find our ship. That we would get off this moon. That we would live.

It would all be better in the morning.

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Comments, criticisms, love letters? Feel free to voice your feedback below. Thanks muchly! :)

-hannie00


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